So Affected
by TemporarilyAbaft
Summary: Psychological take from Sherlock's perspective about the hiatus. ... By which I mean he has a nightmare. Trying to hammer it out, so critiques welcome!


Quick notes; I wrote this in an attempt to hammer out an idea for a comic. I wanted to do something from Sherlock's psychological perspective about the hiatus after he has returned and Moran has been captured. So... We have a dream! Or a nightmare. Criticism and comments appreciated. Like I said, I want to do more with it, so if it's a bit off, send me a message! I'd appreciate it.

I made a playlist that largely consisted of Bastielle's "Icarus," James Vincent McMorrow's "Follow You Down to the Red Oak Tree", and Philip Silvey's SATB arrangement of "900 Miles" for the mood. Also, what got me set on this train of thought? I asked my friend for three random words. Her input was "Green. Skipping. Clock." Thanks!

* * *

He opened his eyes.

There's a settling darkness all around him. He sees a series of darker figures. Deduce, Sherlock. What do you see?

Oh. It's a grave. It is _your_ grave.

The polished marble becomes more distinguishable in response to his recognition. Beyond, there's light. A cloudy London day, the spidery limbs of bare trees vein across the sky and, from this position, seem to run out from the upright stone: it is a curious dark heart that pumps the silhouettes beyond and provides no warmth, and there are words that provide a label at the center. Sherlock Holmes.

He glances around. Another figure, turned away. There's the military set of shoulders, a clipped haircut. Maybe if he gets a better look… He can draw no closer, but he is unable, also, to walk away.

There's a sound to his left, and he glances over. A clock with no numbers jitters and skips. It refuses to mark the minutes. It ticks blindly, always in that same spot. And it refuses him entry beyond that heavy monument upon the ground.

There's an odd tickling on his face and Sherlock brushes his hand against his cheek. His thumb and knuckles come away covered in blood. He removes his scarf and cleans his face. Once finished, he observes the blue fabric. It's washed in gore.

Hm. It's ruined now.

His glance drags once more to the stiff man, the unreachable man, beyond the gravestone, and then in the opposite direction. In that direction, there are yellow fields of dry grass and a railroad. The clock continues ticking, stumbling.

Responding to an innate command, Sherlock places the scarf on the grave. It's of no use anymore. After a moment's hesitation, he also removes his heavy jacket. It, too, is slick with blood along the collar, and there are stains of gritty pavement. Besides, it is heavy. Far too heavy, and it was beginning to pain his chest. He piles the marred fabric at the foot of the stone.

The clock gutters on.

He turns away from the military man. He is able to move away now. But the path beyond the tombstone remains locked. His chest still hurts, but now, without the weight of the jacket, he could float away. It is dizzying.

The railroad path is too bright, but he continues his resolute steps. The sun burns. His thoughts are settled. His mind is vague. It is the sun and heat, Sherlock realizes absently. He remembers the cool of London, how his mind was clearer then. But the sun is searing, and the timepiece skips, and his steps fall one after another.

He does not turn around. He cannot, yet. But when? His steps thump and crunch, and for how long? He is tiring. He closes his eyes and breathes sharply through the weight in his chest. When he opens his eyes again, he is in a room. He recognizes nothing but the clock on the mantle, the same damned clock. The terrible and uncompromising clock, broken and yet beating all the same, ever on.

However, he is not angry. He is tired, he is sore, but the static beats are a numbing constant. So he recognizes their familiar weight, and he accepts it.

When did he shut his eyes?

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

How long? He is no longer the only person in this foreign room. There's the man again. The stiff man. His silhouette leeches upwards from the shadows along the floor. And Sherlock cannot draw closer.

He sees it now or perhaps feels it; there is a nearly imperceptible barrier between him and the man a few feet in front of him. It is weight, and he cannot take a step forward. The guttering hands of the clock reverberate along the stagnant air, and his feet will not lift.

The man does not notice him.

"Sherlock."

Someone has crept behind him. He turns, and there is a shadow. No, not a shadow. He is a man. And he is somehow threatening.

He still cannot draw forward.

The clock has gotten louder, and the only movement Sherlock can make is to lift his hands, slowly, weightily. The man with the threat snarls silently, and his eyes are dark. The creature carries a gun, and he begins to raise it. The rooted man beyond the barrier is unaware.

"Sherlock."

He recognizes that there is the ghost of a voice on the air, but he doesn't hear it. He feels the breath of movement in the foreign, closed room, and Sherlock discovers he can breathe again. The pain in his chest becomes more sharp, and yet less intense, and his mind begins to clear. The clock staggers.

And it is annoying.

With the swirl of clarity, Sherlock recognizes the man with the gun. He struggles to find his voice as he feels, for the first since he found himself in this place, an emotion stir. It is the glimmer of fear.

His mouth doesn't work, but he tries all the same. The word – a name he recognizes – refuses to fall from his lips. The clock is so loud, and his mind buzzes.

A shot is fired, and finally the word stumbles forward amidst the crash of noise. "John!" There is red, and the clinging vines of shadow that merged with the stiff man burn away. The clock makes a crashing noise, clattering in the chaos, and Sherlock is nearly lost in the swirl of images and sounds. He almost misses seeing the second hand come to life.

Tock.

In a gasp, Sherlock awakes and jerks forward, one hand clutching his chest. In the same moment out of desperate instinct, he jabs a fist at a shadow beyond his bed and feels his wrist gripped tightly. He hears words, but doesn't get their meaning for another second. His body all the while responds naturally to the adrenaline, which created panic, and his limbs jerk and tremor with suppressed action.

"Sherlock, you're okay!"

He demands control over his body long enough to stare at John Watson. His flatmate. His friend. Friend.

"It's okay."

His brain finally responds and floods his awareness with the necessary facts. Location, situation, time. He is at Baker Street, and he has reunited with Dr. John Watson, his colleague. It is three years since the fall of Moriarty, and Sebastian Moran has been arrested. Shakily, Sherlock strains breath into his lungs. His flat mate is staring at him worriedly.

"I'm – sorry. John." Sherlock manages finally, screwing his eyes up tightly in an effort to regain control. When he opens them up again, he realizes by John's unguarded expression that he has deduced something of the nature of his nightmare. Sherlock sits up and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. John sits quietly on the side of the bed, and they're silent for a few moments.

Finally, John speaks up, his voice quiet. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. In all of his, after I found out what happened, that you had lied to me. I was so angry that I didn't think… Well. I guess I just. Had no idea you'd been so affected."

* * *

Heyoooo tiny reference. Thanks for reading!


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